


Vows

by Bookwormgal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Fight Scenes, Frankincense and Myrrh, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Holy and Unholy Do Not Mix, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Love, Metaphysical Marriage, Miracles, Other, Pre-Relationship, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Serious Injuries, Summoning Circles, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: Crowley certainly didn't do it on purpose. It wasn't something that he exactly planned. But a moment of desperation and stubbornness gave birth to the creation of something new. A bond forged of power, hope, devotion, love, and promises that he would never break.It isn't often that a demon metaphysically half-marries an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 97
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Hurt Aziraphale





	1. To Have and To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of a random idea of mine and it was just too interesting to pass up. Plus, it gives me the opportunity to play with a few things. Like Crowley’s first real rescue of Aziraphale, what made the angel change his mind about the Arrangement, how Crowley has such a knack for finding Aziraphale when he’s in trouble, and eventually getting to have the angel come to save him instead. I like having the chance to play around with concepts. So here we are.
> 
> Also, I did way too much research for things that ended up being just tiny background details.

**_The Earldom of Wessex, 1020 AD:_ **

An all-out, full-power, no-holds, and extremely violent battle between occult and ethereal forces who had clearly decided to fight it out between their true forms was not something that Crowley could easily miss.

It wasn’t something that really happened anymore. Not since the War, before anyone had any corporeal bodies and they had no choice except to fight in their true forms. After that, when they’d settled into the eternal holding pattern and preparations stage of things, all skirmishes were done between corporations. Everything was at lower stakes. Discorporations would happen, but they didn’t usually push things further. They were all waiting for the Apocalypse when it came to the more vicious and violent assaults outside of the physical plane.

But there were occasional exceptions. Moments where someone pushed those unspoken boundaries. Extra ruthless angels intent on smiting evil. Particularly aggressive demons hungry for suffering.

The sensible thing for Crowley to do would be to run. He should get far away from the intense battle raging on the metaphysical plane. It was absolutely terrifying and brought up far too many memories of the War. There wouldn’t be much evidence of the ongoing conflict in the physical world and certainly not until he was much closer. But he could feel the power crackling from leagues away from the actual fight. There were two powerful entities fighting in a full-on brawl, no holding back and clearly intent on someone ending up utterly destroyed. Getting in the middle of that would only end badly.

And yet Crowley was running through the forest, snapping branches and ignoring the way that the brambles tore at his clothes. He’d abandoned his ill-tempered black horse with the burning eyes that absolutely hated him. He’d left the hellish thing back on the road when the fog grew too thick and the terrain too rough to risk galloping, but only after he’d already rode like a man being chased by the devil.

Or rather, like a demon chasing after the metaphysical battle when he recognized the ethereal presence.

The sensible part of Crowley knew that he shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t worth the risk. And it wasn’t like he could really do anything.

Yes, they liked talking to each other, having the occasional drink or dinner with each other, and other friendly moments when they could manage to bump into each other. And yes, maybe he tried to bump into Aziraphale every chance that he could, even trying to talk him into setting up some kind of arrangement where they could cooperate a bit on some of their assignments or at least not working against each other since that would mean that they would have to meet up more often to organize things. And maybe he cared about the angel. More than was safe and certainly more than he wanted to admit.

But racing to the angel the moment that he realized someone was fighting Aziraphale was a step too far. It was sheer madness.

Especially when Aziraphale was locked in a fight with a demon. A powerful demon. As Crowley stumbled over a log, he finally recognized the other opponent. And immediately bit back a sharp word somewhere between a horrified blessing and a curse.

Asmodeus. The _freaking_ Prince of Hell _Asmodeus_. Equal in rank to Beelzebub and a former member of the Dark Council, at least until that unfortunate incident with Archangel Raphael. That knocked him down a few pegs. And while he had a reputation for inciting and indulging in lust, rumors warned about his temper and fondness for the sin of wrath.

Which explained why a _freaking_ Prince of Hell would come up to Earth and get his hands dirty. Because he had to rebuild some of his past status. And why he would decide to attack a principality’s true form instead of discorporating him like normal. Because he’s a horny, impulsive, aggressive, and violent demon with a temper.

Crowley knew that he should stop running. Asmodeus was too powerful and held too much authority. There would be no talking him into leaving the angel alone with some excuse or bluff. And he certainly couldn’t try making him stop. Crowley couldn’t side with an angel over a Prince of Hell. If Asmodeus didn’t punish him for trying such a thing, Hell would certainly make him suffer for that kind of idiotic betrayal. He should stop. There was nothing that he could do. He should turn back before it was too late.

He somehow ran faster.

By now Crowley was close enough that he could pick out the details of the fight. His corporation’s eyes could only see the trees, the undergrowth, and the fog, but he wasn’t limited merely to the physical plane.

He Saw a bright, shining, and beautiful shape. One with spinning rings of gold, countless eyes that seemed to shift from blue to green to warm brown while almost glowing, brilliant wings that flashed as he twisted and danced around, and burning flames that shone from his core. Aziraphale was as bright and shining as polished crystal, reflecting and bending the light back more colorful and sparkling than before. And he used the twisting and spinning rings to block and slice at his opponent with the sharp-edges of the loops. Aziraphale was breath-taking in his true form.

And Crowley could See how out-matched the angel was by the far larger, stronger, and more aggressive demon. Asmodeus dwarfed the bright being. Black flames, jagged sharp edges like obsidian, large burning eyes, sleek wings of a predator, thick horns of a bull that he kept trying to gore the angel with, and a cloud of oppressive darkness that threatened to swallow up every speck of light. His power was evident on that plane. His aura felt almost smothering. Even if the defeat by Raphael bruised his ego and tarnished his reputation, Asmodeus was just as strong as he’d ever been.

And just as dangerous. Crowley could See the splatters of bright ichor on his thick horns and jagged edges. And he could See the sources of that golden ichor, the bleeding wounds to the angel’s true form. Azirapjhale was clearly on the defensive.

He stumbled across a beaten trail that went vaguely in the right direction. With fewer obstacles, Crowley managed to pick up more speed. He knew that he didn’t actually need to breathe, but convincing his body about that fact currently would take more concentration than he could spare. That left his chest burning as he gasped and panted desperately. His legs, rebellious and treacherous things on the best days, were shaking and struggling to keep up with his demands. But Crowley kept running.

Until he stumbled towards the edges of the makeshift battleground, where the sounds of fighting and the torn up ground from horses deciding to quickly vacate the area caught his attention. At which point Crowley finally did the rational thing and stopped. You do _not_ run into the middle of a fight blind. He needed a better look at the situation.

He slipped just off the trail and moved. Slow and crouched low to the ground, letting the fog and the combatants’ distracted states work for him. With his darker clothes, it should be easy to mistake him for a shadow. Especially with Asmodeus’s aura overshadowing any other demonic presence.

The first thing that he found was a man in light chainmail and a helm. Not expensive enough to belong to anyone with a title, but in good shape. Probably a guard or soldier for someone important. Maybe he worked for the new earl for the area, Godwin.

That new king… Viking one… Cnut or Canute… Whatever his name was… Anyway, he seemed to like the Godwin person. And having the new king of England like you had to come with perks.

But the guard person could have been working for anyone with money to spare on a fighter with a sword. A decent sword that had probably been in his family for a couple of generations. He might have even been someone who fought when the new Viking King of England was still ravaging the countryside in order to conquer it. He looked old enough to have seen some action.

Not that it really mattered now. The man was sprawled on the ground, dark bruises already visible on his neck where the chainmail didn’t cover. Dead.

A little further away was a young woman, half-curled and her back pressed against a large oak tree. Alive, but practically frozen from terror and shock. Her dress, her smooth hands, and the quality of the small knife in her shaking hand all pointed towards her being at least some low-level of nobility. And her wild eyes, messy dark hair, and torn and disheveled dress provided a fairly good hint about what nearly happened to her before events were interrupted.

Crowley looked past the humans to the real point of interest to him. While the main fight was taking place on the metaphysical plane between their true forms, that didn’t meant that their corporations were standing around doing nothing.

Asmodeus’s current corporation resembled a tall, broad-shouldered, and sturdy man who just jumped of the boat to start pillaging. The humans might be adapting and thus changing their names with the times—Vikings, Norsemen, Normans—but demons were rarely as up to date, so Crowley would definitely describe him as a Viking. Though certainly one less concerned with hygiene than the real ones. His braided blond beard was messily done and almost greasy. The leather on his armor was stained while there were flecks of rust and tarnish on his helm. And while the thick, curved, sharp bull horns jutting out on either side of his head looked impressive, they weren’t decorative parts of his helm. They were part of Asmodeus just as much as Crowley’s serpentine eyes. His corporation was built like a stone wall: powerful and unbreakable. And while his sword was merely a human weapon, it was large enough to shatter bone on impact and cleave a man nearly in twain.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, did not look like a exceptionally large member of a warrior society. He looked more like a monk in particularly pale garments who had wandered away from his monastery. Which was probably where the angel had likely spent the last several decades; Crowley had heard enough to know about the illustrated manuscripts being created in such places and he knew Aziraphale. Of course, the angel might be moving onto something else soon. That would explain why he was out along a forest trail, trying to defend himself with a large tree branch.

Seriously, angel? A _stick_? The dead guard’s sword was right there on the ground. He had better options.

It was painfully simple working out the sequence of events. The young lady was traveling somewhere with a couple of guard escorts. But one of those guards was actually Asmodeus, who probably intended to tempt the other fellow into lusting over their lovely charge. And either he grew impatient or Asmodeus ended up jealous. Either way, it led to the guard’s untimely demise. At that point, Asmodeus likely shrugged and decided to defile the by-then-obviously-terrified young noble lady himself. The wrath from her father, brothers, and other relations over someone tarnishing her honor like that would probably be enough to still meet his quotas. Except Aziraphale stumbled onto the scene and decided to protect the young woman. Which led to the horny, impulsive and aggressive Prince of Hell to attack outside the physical plane.

Figuring out what happened was simple. Figuring out what to do about the mess was the problem.

Silently snarling unflattering things about Aziraphale, Asmodeus, himself, thick-headed human women without the sense to flee like her horse clearly did, and Her for good measure, Crowley crept towards the remaining living human. Aziraphale wouldn’t even try escaping as long as she was in danger. He moved until he was behind the same oak tree, keeping to the far side from the combatants. No need to risk drawing attention. One subtle demonic miracle later and the young woman was finally running. And she would keep running until she found somewhere safe, encountering no further danger along the way.

Hey, she was obviously someone of money and means. She was bound to do something horrible eventually. Making sure she stayed alive was absolutely for Hell’s benefit.

And with that out of the way, Crowley could turn his attention back to the fight. Which he immediately regretted. The fight wasn’t going well on either front for the angel. Aziraphale was stumbling, moving sluggishly and with dark stains on his clothes from lucky swipes of the blade. His true form was worse. Both angel and demon bore burn marks from where their opposing natures clashed badly, but Aziraphale was dripping golden ichor from Asmodeus’s attacks. And the larger, stronger, and darker figure was enveloping the smaller angel. Preparing to snuff out that light.

Crowley didn’t hesitate as every part of him screamed out against it. He couldn’t lose Aziraphale. His fingers snapped—

Asmodeus’s corporation, weapon held in front of him as he moved in on the vulnerable figure, stumbled over a rock that wasn’t there a second ago—

—and managed to fall forward on his own sword. Skewered like a boar. He barely managed a gurgle of shock and pain before his body gave out.

Which immediately yanked his true form down towards hell and away from Aziraphale. And Asmodeus wouldn’t be coming back until he explained how he lost a fight to a mere principality by stabbing himself with his own weapon. That particular Prince of Hell would be an absolute laughingstock in no time.

But Crowley was more concerned with dashing forward to catch Aziraphale as he collapsed. Now that there was no one to fight, all of his strength seemed to have abandoned the angel. Crowley carefully dragged him off the trail and around to the far side of the oak tree, away from the bodies. Nobody wanted to look at those. Then he snapped his fingers and sent them Away for good measure.

“Next time, try picking on someone a little closer to your own size, angel,” he hissed as he lowered Aziraphale down, leaning his back against the trunk to keep him sitting upright.

Blinking blearily and struggling to remain conscious, he whimpered uncertainly, “Cr-crowley?”

“Who else?”

He didn’t like the wary look on the angel’s face. Not quite mistrust, but perhaps fear that his trust would soon be shattered when he was too weak to do anything about it. Seeing that look in Aziraphale’s pained expression hurt, making something in the demon’s chest ache and it felt like something even deeper was cracking. But Crowley could almost understand the reaction. It was one thing being almost-friends when they could both defend themselves if necessary. It was quite another when one of them was badly hurt and vulnerable.

They were supposed to be enemies. That knowledge lurked at the back of their minds, easy to ignore except when it wasn’t. Not that Crowley could ever treat Aziraphale as an enemy.

Never.

“You’re safe,” he continued, hoping that he would believe him. “You’re going to be all right.”

Whether or not he believed the word of a demon, Aziraphale lost the fight to remain conscious. Which was a pretty clear signal that Crowley should start doing something.

The injuries to his physical body were relatively easy to handle. Ordinary wounds from mortal weapons, even if they were serious enough to discorporate if left alone. Crowley had patched up his own corporeal body enough times over the ages that he knew how to put things back together again.

But it was the deeper wounds to the angel’s true form that posed a problem. Ragged gashes and punctures that oozed golden ichor and left him weak, the flames dimmer than Crowley liked. The kind of injuries that would send someone shouting for a healer during the War. Maybe Aziraphale could survive them anyway, but he refused to gamble with the angel’s life.

Unfortunately, unless he wanted to cart Aziraphale up to Heaven himself, the only way to get him to a healer would be to discorporate him. Which was a horrible idea on multiple levels. Discorporation was already a shock to the system supposedly. Crowley didn’t want to risk that making the injuries worse. And once discorporated and healed, there was no guarantee how long they would keep Aziraphale in Heaven before letting him back down. Years? Decades? Centuries? Or maybe never, if they decide to reassign him. Crowley refused to let that happen unless there were no other options.

And the idea of purposefully harming Aziraphale like that, even if it was only discorporation…

No. That wasn’t going to happen. Which meant that Crowley would have to heal the angel’s true form himself.

The reason why he was hesitating even now was the painful-looking burns scattered across Aziraphale’s true form. Not because they were particularly grave; the deep gashes were far more serious. It was the implications of the marks. Holy and divine forces did not react well with cursed and infernal forces. And vice versa. They clashed badly. Like fire and ice. The contact between the two polar opposites damaged both. Not enough for Asmodeus to care, but enough that Crowley could see a problem with a demon trying to heal an angel.

But he could do it. Crowley could make it work. He would find a way to heal his angel more than his power could hurt him.

On the physical plane, Crowley pressed a hand to the angel’s newly-healed chest. Feeling the weary heartbeat and labored breathing. But on another plane, he uncurled some of his serpentine loops to draw himself closer to the wounded bright being. Not touching as golden eyes searched for the worst injuries. Not until he was certain where he needed to start.

Then, gritting his teeth, Crowley forced his power into the deepest wound. And hissed from the pain. Holy and unholy clashing viciously. Aziraphale was unconscious enough to avoid the sensation, but the demon could feel where it scorched at him. Different than a dunk in boiling sulfur. Sharp and stinging. But even though he could See his power burning the angel, he could also See the other wounds reluctantly healing. Very reluctantly.

It was going to work. Crowley stubbornly clutched that idea tight. He would make it work. No matter how much resistance there was, Crowley would heal him. He cared too much about Aziraphale to fail him. Crowley cared more than was safe for either of them.

It was hard to ignore those feelings. The way those emotions squeezed in his chest. Emotions that he didn’t want to name. Because naming them would make them more real and more dangerous.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley pushed harder and harder. And that hurt even more. Much stronger than the time he tried sneaking into a monastery. But he would make it work somehow. They weren’t that different. Same original stock. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to heal the angel.

He couldn’t lose Aziraphale.

He hated that thought as soon as he formed in his mind. Because it raised that possibility. It reminded the demon that there was still a chance of failure.

Panting with pain and effort, Crowley leaned forward until his forehead rested against the angel’s. At least that contact didn’t hurt. The physical plane didn’t care about their clashing natures. But he wasn’t making as much progress as he wanted. He wasn’t sure if it would be enough and that scared him.

Crowley wished that he could give the angel all of his energy. Maybe then Aziraphale could use it to heal himself. If he could share his power with the angel and Aziraphale could heal himself, then he would open his eyes and maybe even smile at Crowley. Then everything would be all right.

There had to be a way.

Ignoring the burn marks on his own true form, Crowley whispered, “What is mine, is yours. My power is your power. My strength is your strength.”

He closed his eyes, willing it to be true. He concentrated on that simple concept. Trying to somehow make the impossible idea real. Because he was afraid of what might happen if he failed.

Crowley couldn’t lose him. Not to death and not to Heaven.

“Where you go, I will follow. Me and you. Together. We both will live or neither of us will.”

Because it wouldn’t be worth continuing alone. That realization was a terrifying, overwhelming, and shocking thing. But absolutely true. Because Crowley realized in that moment that his existence would be dull and empty without the angel. And that he valued the angel’s life so much more than his own.

And that he loved Aziraphale.

“Everything that I am,” he continued shakily, “and everything that I have is yours. From now until the end of days.”

The words were tumbling out of him now. Almost without conscious thought. But he knew that they were true. True on a level that was impossible to ignore.

“I will stand by your side. I will protect you from harm. I will never forsake or abandon you.”

Something was building. An unknown force that was curling around them. Crowley was still pouring power into Aziraphale and his wounds, but he could feel the shift. A change that he couldn’t yet define. And yet there was a feeling of anticipation. Like the world was awaiting with bated breath for the final step. A building pressure waiting for release or to be given proper form.

“I am yours. In every way,” he continued, the words coming naturally and etching themselves into his very being. “No force will divide us. No other side can tear us apart. Heaven nor Hell nor anything in between.” Crowley took a shaky and unnecessary breath. “We are on our own side. And I will stand beside you. Until you tell me to go or until Death takes me. And… if Death takes you first, I will follow. Because… I love you and I am yours, Aziraphale.”

Something snapped into place. Hard enough to steal Crowley’s breath away. He felt it burn bright in the deepest part of his true self, new and intense. But the strange new thing didn’t hurt. Overwhelming and powerful, but not in itself painful.

But Crowley couldn’t focus on it because abruptly the resistance was gone. There was no need to fight and struggle to heal Aziraphale because it felt as natural as breathing. Or as natural as breathing would feel to a human. Crowley could feel the pain from coming in contact with something as holy as an angel’s true form, but he wasn’t scorching Aziraphale with his power now. And he could feel his strength and energy flooding into Aziraphale like it belonged there. Sealing the deep wounds until he stopped bleeding ichor. Coaxing his flames brighter, warmer, and closer to normal. Even soothing away the scorch marks from the angel’s true form.

Aziraphale’s divinity might still burn the demon, but Crowley’s infernal nature no longer harmed him.

Crowley didn’t stop until Aziraphale seemed whole. Tired and unconscious, but healed. Only then did he let his power fade away. Only when he was certain that the angel would be all right. No danger of discorporation or anything worse. The angel was safe.

Which left him feeling warm despite the chill of the fog. He wanted to curl his true self closer to the bright figure, despite knowing it would hurt. He wanted to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s corporations, holding him close. He wanted to embrace the angel in every way as he properly accepted the familiar warmth that he could now name. A warmth that had been there far longer than he’d realized.

Love.

He loved Aziraphale. His best friend. His closest and dearest friend for longer than he could remember. And he loved the angel. He loved Aziraphale enough for forge something new and powerful. Something strong. Something that felt unbreakable and precious. Something that had made it easier to heal the angel.

A bond. Or maybe half of a bond since it felt incomplete. But one that Crowley would certainly examine closer when he had the chance.

Reluctantly, Crowley leaned away from the angel. Physically and metaphysically. No matter what he might feel for the angel, Aziraphale didn’t feel the same way. He shouldn’t crowd him. He shouldn’t push.

He settled back and waited patiently. And that gave him time to become aware of how exhausted he felt and how much his true form ached and throbbed. The burns left behind by the angel’s divine nature would take time to fade. Hopefully he could keep Aziraphale too distracted to notice. He didn’t often Look at the demon’s true self, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to keep him from paying attention. That didn’t mean that Crowley wouldn’t appreciate a nap later.

Crowley watched until the angel finally began stirring. Aziraphale winced slightly as he shifted, but didn’t seem to be in real pain. Maybe a little sore, but nothing worse. And when his bleary eyes opened and Aziraphale met his gaze, the demon smiled at him.

“Feeling better?” asked Crowley carefully.

Blinking a few more times, he said, “Crowley?” Aziraphale sat up with a confused expression. “What…? How…? Why…?”

“Hitting all the big questions, aren’t you?”

“What happened? I know that I was fighting…”

“Asmodeus,” he prompted. “A Prince of Hell.”

Paling slightly, Aziraphale nodded and continued, “And I know that it didn’t… It didn’t go well. But I feel…”

“Less like you’ve been gored a few times?”

“Yes. Did… Did _you_ do something?”

Crowley looked away, muttering something that didn’t actually resemble words. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say anyway. Regardless of what he might feel, there were some things that he couldn’t or wouldn’t admit. Things that no demon could say. Both because of the risk and because of the way it would shred his reputation to pieces. He couldn’t confess to everything that he’d done that day. He couldn’t admit that he discorporated a Prince of Hell, healed the angel, and then realized that he loved Aziraphale.

And he certainly couldn’t mention the mysterious partial bond that he’d inadvertently crafted or the quiet things that he’d promised when he was struggling to heal the angel’s wounds.

After a few moments of silence, Aziraphale said gently, “A little while ago, you asked me about… perhaps finding ways to avoid getting in each other’s way during assignments? So we do not do all that work and then merely cancel each other out?”

“Among other things,” he said slowly, turning back to face the angel.

Aziraphale fidgeted with his clothes as he watched him. He bit his bottom lip as his fingers twitched and twisted at the fabric. But he eventually seemed to steel himself and met Crowley’s gaze again.

“If you are amenable to the idea,” he continued cautiously, “perhaps we could go somewhere a little less damp and unpleasant. And we could have a drink and maybe discuss your idea a little more thoroughly. To be certain that I understand exactly what it is you have in mind.”

Crowley couldn’t prevent the surprised smile that formed. He could recognize the gesure for exactly what it was meant to be. Aziraphale was showing his gratitude in the only way that he could. Crowley took a risk to help him, so Aziraphale was taking a risk of his own. Reaching out to him. Taking a chance.

He stood up slowly before pulling Aziraphale carefully to his feet. The angel looked around briefly, a momentary frown flickering across his face.

“The damsel in distress is fine, angel,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come on then. We’ll go chase down your horse and find somewhere comfortable to have that drink together.”


	2. From This Day Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I’m glad to see that the first chapter of this idea has gone over so well. I look forward to seeing everyone’s reaction to the rest of what I have planned.

It took Crowley some time to work out exactly what he’d accidentally created that day. A bright and warm thing that wove through his entire being. That incomplete bond, born out of love, power, and promises.

It wasn’t like it came with an instruction manual, after all. He had to resort to trial and error. Or careful observation over the centuries.

That partial bond came with a variety of interesting side effects. Not just the ability to heal the angel all the way down to his true form without hurting Aziraphale in the process. Though the fact that Crowley’s specific infernal nature no longer scorched at the angel’s essence was oddly reassuring to him.

But there was more to their new connection than just that. A feeling that tugged at him. Easy to ignore or forget about unless Crowley wanted to pay attention to the sensation. But now he could always find Aziraphale when he needed to track him down. Which was useful considering another side effect. Whenever Aziraphale was hurt, distressed, or in danger, Crowley could sense it. Like a horrible, gut-wrenching sensation that would practically wrench the demon to wherever the angel might be. That particular feeling could _not_ be ignored.

Those side effects turned out to be useful over the centuries. He never realized how much trouble that the angel got into when left alone. Nor did he realize how often Heaven would check in on Aziraphale and leave him upset. Knowing when the angel needed him and how to find him turned out to very useful.

But defining the connection was the point where Crowley ran into an issue. A bond between the two of them. Forged from love and promises. Very serious promises. Verging on vows.

It wasn’t a human-style marriage, but it certainly seemed to fit on a metaphysical level.

Crowley somehow accidentally half-married his best friend. That wasn’t exactly an easy topic to bring up. But the longer that he waited, the more obvious it became that he could never tell Aziraphale what he’d done. Because the angel struggled to admit their friendship. Finding out that the demon loved him and that he’d bound himself to Aziraphale in a permanent fashion, because Crowley could _feel_ the permanence in the half-formed bond, would be too much for him. It was easier to pretend that he never made the connection except for when he needed it to help Aziraphale.

Aziraphale chose the Arrangement. Not some accidental incomplete bond that Crowley created without realizing what he was doing. Not something that he inadvertently forced onto the angel. Aziraphale chose the Arrangement, so it was the Arrangement that actually mattered.

And so he kept quiet about what happened. He didn’t dwell on how much he loved the angel. He pretended that it didn’t hurt when Aziraphale turned down his request for holy water, trivializing what they had together as “fraternizing.” He tried to pretend that it didn’t break his heart.

But when Aziraphale needed his help, he came. Crowley followed the tugging deep in his true form and the feeling of distress to the church. The same way that he did into the Bastille and countless other times before. Because he promised to protect him, to stay by his side, and to never forsake him. And Crowley would never break that promise to him. Even if Aziraphale would never know about his promise.

And they continued in that fashion for a few more decades. Dancing around the edges of some unnamed thing between them. Orbiting each other and trying to communicate without saying the actual words that they mean. It wasn’t everything that Crowley felt or wished that he could share, but it was something. They could have that much. Friendship and the Arrangement.

Then the Apocalypse was upon them. The world was ending and everything was going wrong. Their plans failed before they could even get started. And then Aziraphale denied that they were friends, that they meant anything to each other. He refused to come with Crowley to safety among the stars. He rejected the offer repeatedly, choosing to remain on Earth and face certain death. He refused to listen or to accept that Heaven would not hold the answers.

_“There is no ‘our’ side, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over.”_

Aziraphale wouldn’t let Crowley save him, denounced him, and essentially dissolved the Arrangement.

But no matter how many times that Crowley snapped that he intended to leave, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t abandon Aziraphale. He couldn’t turn his back on the angel. He loved Aziraphale too much for that. Whenever the angel needed him, Crowley would be there.

Until he failed.

Crowley had sensed the angel’s distress and the urgency of it pulling at him across the city. But he couldn’t answer it, just as he couldn’t speak to Aziraphale on the phone. Not when he was cornered, Ligur freshly melted and Hastur one wrong move away from dragging Crowley down to Hell. Only afterwards could he race to the bookshop and the angel.

But Crowley only found heartache and grief. A bookshop in flames. And a gaping emptiness where Aziraphale should be. He couldn’t _find_ him. For the first time since he promised himself over to the angel fully and created that connection, he couldn’t sense Aziraphale. Crowley grabbed at that half-formed, intangible, and unbreakable bond desperately, but he felt nothing.

His angel was gone.

That should have been the end. The loss destroyed him, leaving only a dull and empty shell behind. Shattered, hopeless, and emotionally gutted. There was no point. Crowley gave up.

Waiting for the end of everything. Waiting for death to claim him as well. Waiting to follow the angel into nonexistence. Waiting to fulfill his final vow.

But then the impossible happened. Aziraphale came back to him.

Aziraphale came back to him, the world didn’t end, Satan didn’t slaughter everyone, and they managed to trick both Heaven and Hell. And when it was over, all of those dangerous threats that had loomed over their relationship were gone. They were safe and together. And that was more than enough.

He loved Aziraphale and he always would. The angel was his best friend and could now admit it. Aziraphale actually claimed Crowley as his friend, without hesitation or fear. Maybe someday Crowley would find the courage to tell him how he felt and about the metaphysical marriage, but maybe not. Regardless, it would be all right. What they had now would be enough.

* * *

Aziraphale knew that he was loved. He was an angel. They could sense such things. It wrapped around him like a warm blanket. They could always tell when someone or something was particularly beloved and that included himself.

It was a little trickier identifying the source of that love.

He knew that it came from different sources. His senses worked better at identifying the target of the emotions rather than the directions that it came from.

Aziraphale knew that it came from different sources. Some of that love came from Her; Aziraphale knew that without a single doubt. And there was a time that he wanted to believe that the rest of the angels cared. And he’d gained the affections of various humans over the ages. That affection took different forms for each person, but it was still essentially different forms of love.

Dissecting the love into different origins. And there was one that Aziraphale couldn’t identify for the longest time. A constant and powerful love that continued growing. A love that started as friendship before gaining extra facets and dimensions. Aziraphale couldn’t pin down who loved him that way.

Not until a demon handed him his bag of books in the bombed-out wreckage of a church.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley loved him. It took time for him to wrap his head around the idea. And even longer for Aziraphale to truly accept what he felt for the demon in return. It wasn’t until the Apocalypse failed to happen that Aziraphale could admit to himself that he loved Crowley back.

He couldn’t tell Crowley. Not yet. It was too much, too fast. Everything was changing too fast for him to handle. He needed something to stay the same and constant a little longer. A solid foundation to build on when everything else was different.

And that admission seemed intimidating the more that he considered it. It was hard enough to whisper the words alone in his bookshop. Telling Crowley would take a little longer to manage.

But until Aziraphale could manage, they could still enjoy their new freedom. Going out to dinner regularly. Feeding the ducks by the pond. Spending evenings together in the back of the bookshop. All the things that they enjoyed together, but now they didn’t need to make up excuses to see each other.

Every few days, Crowley would arrive at the bookshop with stories of some new piece of mischief or amusement that he’d come up with as entertainment. Or a description of his current houseplants and their problems. Or something that he’d seen that he thought the angel would like. Then he would coax Aziraphale into visiting the park, attending a play, going out to eat, or anything that sounded particularly pleasant that day. Or sometimes they would stay in the bookshop, talking about nothing and everything.

It was nice. Aziraphale appreciated every moment together. And when they weren’t together, he would work on what he wanted to say to Crowley. Practicing and rewording them a few hundred times. Aziraphale preferred to think things through carefully and consider all his options before taking action. And when it came to something as important as admitting to Crowley how he felt, he couldn’t make a mistake.

Someday he would tell Crowley. And he wanted to do it right.

* * *

After the complete failures of the execution attempts, Heaven and Hell came to the conclusion that Aziraphale and Crowley couldn’t be killed by conventional methods. And most of them decided that it was safer to stay away from the pair. Simply pretend that they didn’t exist and sweep the entire mess under the rug.

But not everyone. Michael was annoyed over losing her best contact in Hell. At least, “annoyance” was the only emotion that she would admit to in regards to the loss. While Hastur’s fury over Ligur’s demise was bright and vicious, she remained cold and calculating. And she could understand the concept of outsourcing.

Heaven and Hell weren’t known for their creativity. But humans were.

There was a small and dedicated group who tried to do Her work by combating evil directly at the supposed source. The Knighthood of the Righteous Defenders tried to protect the world by destroying demons. In their minds, demons were the ultimate cause of all the world’s pain and suffering. And that meant world peace could only be achieved with their destruction. Not an accurate assessment, but useful for Michael’s purposes.

They weren’t the best organization by that point. After a few generations of their noble cause being passed down from parents to their children, things had diluted down. It was something that the members would focus on once or twice a month when they gathered, but they would then ignore it the rest of the time as the dealt with their everyday lives. Not everyone studied Latin now and their reference guides ended up in the back of desk drawers instead of in easy reach. The biggest problem was that they could rarely get their hands on an actual demon. And their methods tended to be elaborate, over-the-top, and excessive. A form of drawn-out overkill.

But humans were creative. And as far as the Archangel was concerned, that creativity and their excessive measures might be enough to finish off someone that was supposedly invulnerable.

It was an elegant plan. Let the humans handle the problem. Let them destroy the demon that destroyed Ligur, her inside source of information in Hell. Break Aziraphale’s heart and make him suffer for his part in Armageddon’s failure.

Neat, organized, and perfect.

If it failed, the humans would be the ones to deal with the fallout and suffer. But if it succeeded, then she achieved what she wanted. Not revenge, because Heaven didn’t _do_ revenge. No, it would be righteous punishment. The destruction of one traitor and the suffering of the other.

The Knighthood of the Righteous Defenders were shocked and awestruck when the Archangel Michael manifested before them in all her glory. Right in the middle of their bi-monthly Tuesday meeting. And she had a mission for them. The name of a vile, ruthless, and cunning demon. Archangel Michael commanded them to use all of their knowledge and skills to destroy the dreaded creature. And they accepted the mission whole-heartedly.

Her arrival was the all the confirmation that they needed regarding their purpose. It meant that all those generations devoted to their united cause was not in vain. It was a sign that this was the right path. They were doing Her work. And they were being called on to perform a task at an angel’s request.

They accepted the Archangel’s mission and blessing without a single doubt concerning the righteousness of the cause. If the destructions of demons would make the world less evil, then destroying the source of humanity’s first crime should make a huge difference. With the information that she provided, they would be able to get their hands on Crowley.

* * *

**_England, 2020:_ **

Crowley was spending the evening in his flat, sprawled lazily on his new sofa and wearing his pajamas as he watched a few episodes of “The Golden Girls.” He’d spent the day with Aziraphale, taking him to a nice lunch before spending some time back in the bookshop. He listened to the angel talk about one of his newly acquired books, about the letter that Madame Tracy sent him, and how Anathema promised during their latest phone call to send him a copy of her thesis because the angel found it intriguing. And Crowley listened to every bit of it with an indulgent smile as he basked in the angel’s presence, occasionally teasing him just enough to get that familiar huffy expression. If Crowley had his preference, he would still be there.

But Crowley had learned a long time ago that he had to take his time with the angel. He needed to go slow with change and they were being hit by a lot of abrupt changes since the failed Apocalypse. Crowley didn’t want to risk crowding or smothering Aziraphale with too much attention at once. He could push the limits, but it needed to be gradual. Slow and careful.

But he couldn’t let the angel feel abandoned either. There had to be a balance. He needed to work his way up to spending more time with Aziraphale. He’d worked out a schedule that would let him slowly slither his way into staying around the angel more. It would take several years, but it would be worth the effort. Until then, Crowley needed to spend a couple of days away between visits.

Which was why he was watching Rose share another St. Olaf story with her roommates and trying to come up with a new project to keep himself occupied. Without assignments or quotas, Crowley needed to use his imagination to find ways to keep himself entertained. It helped if he tried to come up with ideas that would make good stories to tell Aziraphale afterwards.

It hit suddenly. Like sharp and burning hooks stabbing into his true form.

Gasping in shock and pain, Crowley tumbled off the sofa and tried to scramble to his phone. He recognized the sensation; it happened too often in the fourteenth century. And he regretted leaving his mobile in the other room when he changed into his pajamas. There was no time.

He needed to call Aziraphale.

Resisting never worked, but Crowley tried. He fought the agonizing pull as he tried to reach the phone on his desk. Fighting it always made it worse and never worked. And as always, it was ultimately useless.

No demon could escape a properly-performed summoning spell.

It yanked his essence across an unknown distance, dragging his corporation behind like a kite. The entire experience was an assault on the senses. Blinding, deafening, and overwhelming in every way.

Then he slammed back into reality, his corporeal body crashing down a few seconds after his true form. It always took a moment or two for everything to settle back into place during a summoning. Getting everything repositioned and aligned properly as he tucked himself back into his corporation. The whole thing was unsettling from start to finish. Crowley never understood why some demons seemed to like it.

But the moment that Crowley became properly aware of his surroundings again, he noticed the burning. He was crouched in the summoning circle on his hands and knees, barely catching his body from crashing face-first into the ground upon landing. But everywhere that touched the smooth wood floor burned. Even through his black pajamas, he could feel the mildly painful sensation. Like standing on hot sand on the beach.

Crowley hissed sharply, both annoyed and unnerved. Consecrated ground. Someone summoned him onto consecrated ground. What kind of twisted idea was that?

It wasn’t Satanists or bored university students. They wouldn’t go for consecrated ground for their demon summoning ventures. That meant this was something else. Something possibly more dangerous.

Pushing himself up, providing a little relief by reducing the contact with the floor to only his bare feet, Crowley spared a moment to take in some more details about his surroundings. It still looked dark outside, so he was relatively sure that he was still on the same general continent. The summoning circle was painted on with white paint, not a single mark out of place or any noticeable weak points. Perfect and inescapable. The dark stained-glass windows, the half-broken pews, and the dusty cobwebs told him that he was definitely in a semi-abandoned church. Only semi-abandoned because someone decided to draw a summoning circle, light numerous candles, and set up a trio of braziers with glowing embers inside.

Though on second glance, the large ornate silver vessels with metal latticework might be censers instead of normal braziers. Which meant that someone intended to burn incense in them. Not a good development.

Summonings generally didn’t involve churches or incense. Sometimes a human would add some incense to the process for the aesthetic, but it was rare. These oddities suggested that something different was going on. Something _creative_.

Dread crept up his spine as his feet continued to sting and burn.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was responsible. A single hooded figure in brown robes slowly stood up from where they were kneeling in front of the summoning circle. Then movement caught Crowley’s eye and drew his attention farther away, beyond the candles and broken pews. Other humans strolled forward, their movements deliberate and controlled. Seven humans in robes, hiding their faces and identities. Either these people were in a cult or they all shared the same really bad fashion sense.

Crowley drew himself up to his full height and glared at the group with fully golden eyes. There was an expected procedure regarding demonic summonings. The humans wanted something evil, vicious, and powerful. He needed to be intimidating and inhuman. It was his best chance of bluffing his way out of his current mess.

“Foolish mortals. Who _dares_ summon the Serpent of Eden?” he hissed, trying to be subtle as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

For the fullest effect, Crowley should have tried turning into a snake. Giant snakes abruptly materializing in front of humans tended to terrify them. And scared humans were the sort to make mistakes that he could use to escape. He would certainly be more terrifying as a snake than he was as someone standing around in his pajamas and missing his sunglasses. But it was easier to bear just his feet burning instead of the entire length of his scaly form. The less that he had to touch the consecrated ground, the better.

Unfortunately, none of the humans looked even slightly impressed by his performance. They started chanting quietly in unison. It took a few moments for Crowley to recognize the first few verses of the Bible being recited in poorly done Latin. As if they’d put the lines through a free translator online and ended up with something in the general ballpark, but not quite. But they apparently decided that Latin was necessary, even if they were mangling it. Because these things needed a certain amount of style.

At least they weren’t trying anything that resembled an exorcism. Nothing about being banished from his current form or returning to Hell, usually spoken with some thee-s and thou-s tossed in at random and completely incorrectly. After a few films came out, exorcism attempts became popular again. Those could be annoying even without him possessing some human’s body.

“Are you expecting my head to spin around or something,” he snapped, abandoning any attempt to be intimidating out of frustration and pain.

His feet were really starting to bother him. If he stayed there too long, they might start blistering.

The butchered Latin never paused, even if it would be more merciful to just let the dead language rest in peace. But they kept chanting as two of the humans started moving around the circle. They pulled out two boxes from under their robes. At each of the censers, they paused to add something from the boxes to the glowing embers. By the time that they finished their circle, the burning incense began to drift into the air.

The metaphysical impact struck a split second before the scent of the incense. Powerful, forbidden and inescapable. Washing over his true form in a burning wave that left him scrambling to get away.

The sweet, citrusy, warm, rich, and sweet-woody scent of frankincense. The sharp, complex, piney, bitter, and almost medicinal odor of myrrh. Both of which were very strong and impossible to miss, especially for someone as sensitive to scent as the demon. Humans had been burning both for a very long time. The two were used throughout history for purification, consecration, breaking hexes and curses, dispelling negativity, banishing evil, and exorcising unholy beings.

There was a reason why the three wisemen included frankincense and myrrh as baby gifts. In addition to being worth an astonishingly large amount of money back then, they were also a form of demon repellent.

The scent burned and choked at his corporeal body. But the way it went after his true form was far worse. It burned. Like acid. A cloud of acid that surrounded him, growing thicker by the second. Wrapping around every part of him even as it tried to force him out. To force him away. Burning and repelling his very essence.

Crowley didn’t realize that his corporation was slamming desperately against the edges of the summoning circle until the impacts managed to rattle through his true form. The barrier wasn’t a physical one and it jolted through him on a deeper level.

But he couldn’t stop. It was automatic and instinctive. He needed to get away.

It burned. Searing and eating away at him. Trying to smother out his existence. It clashed with his essence. Wrong and unrelenting.

He couldn’t escape, but every part of him screamed. He needed to get away. To flee. To race away from this place. Everything was designed against him. Hostile and increasingly painful. The consecrated ground. The frankincense and myrrh. Crowley’s existence was unwelcome in a very fundamental way.

Unwelcome to the point of gradual destruction. Like acid eating away at the mountain before the bird in a spaceship could wear it down himself. Not the instant destruction of holy water. Not lethal immediately. But the mountain could still be worn away.

He needed to claw his way out. His mind kept spinning around in circles. Everything hurt, but he needed to escape. He didn’t belong. Everything hurt. The ground burned, his body was choking, his skin throbbed, his true form thrashed, and _they wouldn’t stop chanting in mangled Latin_.

Crowley needed out, everything was trying to force him out, but the summoning circle kept him trapped. It forced him to stay. It forced him to endure the worsening agony. It forced him to stay, burning and scorching as the scent of frankincense and myrrh surrounded him. Suffocating and crushing him.

Crowley fought against the barrier. His corporation. His true form. He battered against it on multiple levels. He could barely recognize the fact that the desperate, terrified, and wounded sound that now joined the chanting was coming from himself. Wordless sounds of a panicked demon. Rational thought was beyond his reach. He just kept flinging himself against his prison.

There had to be a place to break out. There had to be a weakness. There just had to be a way.

He needed to get away. He needed it to stop.

* * *

The Knighthood of the Righteous Defenders had developed a very unique and ceremonial method of destroying demons.

It began long ago, when they were first forming and the original members needed an appropriate number. Something to tie everything together. After all, there was the Number of the Beast and it seemed prudent to pick a number to combat it. Since the world was created in six days with a seventh set aside for rest, they saw the potential in such a number. And when they looked closer, there were other connections. Seven deadly sins. Seven heavenly virtues.

They could sense a theme.

By the time the Apocalypse came and went without actually happening properly, they’d worked out all the details. They would have seven members of the Knighthood of Righteous Defenders gather together, dressed in identical robes so that the demon wouldn’t recognize them if it managed to escape somehow. They would summon and trap the demon in a holy place. Then they would burn frankincense and myrrh, filling the space with the purifying scents. And for seven days, they would keep the demon trapped. Reciting a few appropriate Bible verses in Latin each day and keeping the incense burning.

None of these things were strictly necessary to destroy a demon. But they would certainly cause the demon slow, horrible, and intense pain. Damaging on multiple levels. Pure and utter torture.

But such elaborate measures weren’t actually necessary. All that they needed was the last step. On the seventh day, they would finish the ceremony by pouring holy water over the demon. At that point, it was almost a kindness.

It had been a long time since the Knighthood had the chance to use their methods on an actual demon. But they intended to follow the directions to the letter. They would do things right.

Seven days of reciting passages, burning incense, and keeping the weakening demon contained. And then they would finish him off with the holy water.

Archangel Michael would be proud of them.


End file.
